Last Chance
by Aeriel Ravenna
Summary: It’s Draco’s last chance to tell her. He loves her but she may never know. One-shot.


**Last Chance**

By

Aeriel Ravenna

Rating: **G**

Summary: It's Draco's last chance to tell her. He loves her but she may never know. One-shot.

Disclaimer: Even though I think this is pointless (if you're writing on FANFICTION **dot **net, you think it would be obvious you aren't the actual writer) the characters do not belong to me. They are J.K. Rowling's. I am just taking them out for a stroll.

A **/ N : A real quick one shot. Just pounced on me, for some reason. Enjoy. **

I swallow heavily as I watch her. She looks even more radiant that usual, her grin extra wide, her cheeks flushed. I want no more than to take her into my arms.

She looks stunning, as she always does. Even in the stupid, bland black robe-and-cap graduation uniforms that we wear, she looks extra beautiful.

I doubt anyone notices her true beauty but I.

It is my last day to approach her, apologize, kiss, hold, touch her. It is my last chance.

I'm not sure when I began loving her. Her lips never seemed to become redder, her hair less bushy, her eyes less dull. She didn't seem to suddenly become perfect in a day, a year, a summer. It was an imperceptibly change, but I'm sure I loved her far before I realized.

I think I _realized_ on a Swap Day, a new tradition in Hogwarts made to promote inter-house unity. We had randomly assigned seats at small tables consisting of four seats, one seat per each house. One day, I was lucky enough to sit with her. I sat beside her. She took no notice of me except for a small gaze of pity that hurt worse than her most cold glare.

Mandy Brocklehurst, of Ravenclaw, sat across from her. Mandy was a slightly pudgy girl with brown eyes and shoulder length blonde hair that she always wore in two fat pigtails. She was extremely smart and _she_ had begun a conversation with Mandy as soon as we sat down.

Her eyes were flashing as she bit into a pear. She laughed at some witty comment Mandy had made and wiped pear juice from her chin with her sleeve. I was fascinated by the sight. Since then, I've watched her, subtly. Her quiet beauty seemed more overpowering, more intoxicating than firewhiskey.

And now she stands, away from me, but happy. This may be the last time I see her.

I'm not sure if I'm sorry or not to end this infatuation. It will probably save a lot of hurt and rejection.

It will probably break my heart.

I watch her through the ceremony. I watch her hug her parents, her friends, even McGonagall.

Then she hugs—_him_—and I can't watch.

She doesn't see the look in his eyes. She doesn't see the lust, the love, the genuine affection. But I do.

I'm not sure what hurts more, not having her, or letting her settle for Ronald Weasley.

I leave. I have no one waiting here for me, to hug me, to love me, anyway. I go to her favorite spot, deserted now.

The library smells of dust and leather. I let out a shuddering breath and wander to my favorite bookcase.

Here I watched her. Here I love her.

It is ten minutes before I move, only to turn at the rustle of cloth.

She is there. I am amazed, yet not at all. It seems this was supposed to happen, always.

"Malfoy?" she offers tentatively. I do not reply. There is so much I want to say to her, but can't. It seems best to leave her unknowing, so she does not feel guilt, pressure.

I lift my gaze from her tiny feet and look into her eyes. I do not know what she sees in my eyes, but comprehension dawns upon her and she backs away, stumbling.

I lower my face. It would have been easier if she left. But life does not always take the 'easier' course.

"Malfoy, the feast is beginning," she says. Her voice shakes a little.

I nod my agreement. Yes, the feast is beginning. This has nothing to do with me.

"Aren't you going to come? Don't you want to celebrate?" I shake my head no to her questions and she sits down.

"Are you going to say anything?"

I want to. God, I want to. My throat is collapsed and I only manage to rasp out "I can't," which doesn't seem to satisfy her.

"Can't what, Malfoy?" she asks after a moment. There is only one response to this.

"Don't call me that," I say. She looks puzzled.

"What else can I call you the? Master?" she says edgily I shake my head.

"You could try my name," is my reply and it confuses her until she realizes I am not referring to my surname.

"Draco, then. What can't you do?" Her voice sounds smooth, like water poured over satin, on my name. It is quite possibly the sexiest thing I have ever heard, but I will not torture myself with those thoughts.

I shake my head but her eyes are insistent and I know she will refuse to leave. I blurt out the least incriminating thing I have wanted to say all evening, all year. "I'm sorry,"

Her gaze softens and she knows that I mean for everything. For calling her a Mudblood. For turning her, her friends in. For everything. For being alive.

"That's not all," she says, raising an eyebrow as if asking me a question, though it is more of a statement.

"I—yes, well—no, but—" I stutter and then close my mouth. I cannot. I will not.

I do anyway. I gasp it all out. How I love her, how I'm not good enough for her but neither is he and my eyes are burning and how I don't want her to pity me and how I'm not my father even though she thinks I am and she is the most beautiful person I've ever met, inside and out and I love her and I love her and _I love her_.

And then I run out of words to say, and my voice stops. I am afraid to look up. I collect my wits and steal a glance up.

She is not there. I'm not sure she ever was.

Oh, Hermione, Hermione, Hermione. How I love you.


End file.
